


Death in the Forecast

by ssclassof56



Series: Agent Pemberley [18]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-08 13:54:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11082963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssclassof56/pseuds/ssclassof56
Summary: Thrush has murder in mind. Can UNCLE stop them in time?





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for LiveJournal's Section7MFU - Short Affair Challenge  
> Prompts: stir / yellow

The breeze from the terrace, heavy and moist as a pent-up sigh, stirred the curtains but brought little relief to those gathered in the drawing room. Beyond the French doors, yellow flashes illuminated the thunderheads rising behind the distant hills. A storm was building.

A storm was building inside as well. Sir Elliot Currin’s fingers drummed an angry tattoo on the arm of his chair, and his blue eyes, usually cool and austere, glared out from beneath knitted brows. The couple across the room continued their bossa nova, seemingly oblivious to his fierce gaze. 

Xavier Magnuson looked on in satisfaction. He had been seeding the clouds, as it were, for several days. Tonight he hoped for more than a rain shower; he sought to reap the whirlwind.

“How long has Napier been with you?” he asked his host. His tone was casual, his focus on the chess board between them.

Sir Elliot dragged his eyes from his young wife and her darkly handsome dance partner. He reached up to smooth his own pale, graying hair as he answered, “Several months.”

The record changed to a slower track. Lady Currin stepped forward and draped her arm over Napier’s shoulder. His brows lifted in surprise, his gaze darting toward Magnuson, whose fingers waved in a small gesture indicating ‘You see? I told you.’ After a moment’s hesitation, Napier began to lead her in close, swaying steps.

“That short a time? Yet he and your wife are on terms of such…intimacy.” Magnuson let the word linger between them as he reached for his knight. “I assumed he had been in your employ for years.” 

Lady Currin’s white sheath dress was long in sleeve, short of skirt, and enticingly backless. Napier’s hand rested on her tanned skin, his thumb drawing lazy circles against her spine. His warm brown gaze held hers, and his lips murmured phrases too quiet for the others to hear. Her own fingers grasped the nape of his neck, as she looked up coyly through heavily-blackened lashes.

“Your move,” Magnuson said. 

A rumble of thunder followed hard upon his words. Sir Elliot released his white-knuckled grip on the arm of his chair and hovered one hand above his chess pieces. The other moved to his coat pocket. The item within was heavy for its small size, distorting the well-tailored lines. 

Earlier that evening as he examined a display case, Magnuson had noted the absence of an antique percussion pistol, part of the collection which his host had proudly displayed on the first night of his visit. He allowed himself a small smile of gratification. Not everyone would survive this weekend, and Thrush would be ready to pick up the pieces.


	2. Chapter 2

Lady Currin laughed breathlessly as she spun toward her husband, then back into her partner’s embrace. “Oh, Leo, you make me dizzy,” she cried. She rested her head on his shoulder, heedless of her elaborate halo of sausage curls. 

“That's probably the champagne. You sure can put that stuff away,” Napier replied. 

“I like champagne. It tickles my nose.”  

He tapped the feature lightly with his fingertip. “The mark of a true connoisseur.” 

Her mouth formed a playful pout, then her grey eyes shone mischievously. “Are you ticklish, Leo?” 

She thrust her hand beneath his dinner jacket and attacked his side. With a hoot of laughter, Napier grabbed her wrist and gathered her close, pinning her to his chest. They stood, faces inches apart, breathing heavily. 

“Christina!” Sir Elliot barked. “You forget yourself. Mr. Napier is my secretary, not a playmate.” 

Napier released her abruptly. He smoothed his jacket and stepped forward, putting himself between Lady Currin and his employer. “I don’t mind high spirits, sir. It’s an admirable quality.” 

Sir Elliot directed a cool gaze at him. “Do you count yourself as one of my wife’s admirers?” 

“She’s a charming girl. To know her is to admire her.”  

Lady Currin retrieved her champagne flute from an end table and raised it toward her husband. “Not in every case. Isn’t that right, dearest?”  

“I think you have drunk enough for this evening,” he said stiffly, gesturing toward their guest with a jerk of his head. 

She brought the champagne to her mouth. Without breaking their gaze, she drained the glass and ran her tongue slowly across her lips. 

Sir Elliot’s face suffused with red. He jumped to his feet, rattling the chess pieces. “It is time for you to retire, Christina.” 

“But I want to dance.” She raised her arms above her head and spun in a leisurely circle. Her hemline rose as well, leaving little to the imagination. Her hips swayed to the music. Sir Elliot’s eyes flashed for a moment with a different kind of fire, and she smiled in triumph. 

Napier took the champagne flute from her hand and set it on the table. “It’s late. We should both say goodnight.” 

She lowered her arms and held them out invitingly. “Just one more?” 

“Not tonight. I have reports to finish and an early train to catch.” Above a regretful smile, his eyes shone intently. She returned the smile with a tiny nod. 

“Oh, you’re going to the City. Perhaps I’ll ride in with you. I have shopping to do.” 

 “Certainly.” He bade goodnight to the two gentlemen. Lady Currin walked with him to the doorway and offered her hand. He kissed it lightly. “Until morning, then.” 

“Yes, until morning.” 

She watched him go, then lingered in the threshold, one hand resting on the doorframe. The album’s last track faded out, replaced by an electric hum and the crackle of static. She crossed to the hifi and shut it off.  

Sir Elliot took his seat and fixed his eyes on the chess board. His fingers resumed their drumming. Lady Currin watched him pensively and chewed her lip. “Are you coming up, Elliot?” she asked finally. 

“No. Mr. Magnuson and I will finish our game. Enjoy your little jaunt tomorrow.” He did not look up. 

Lady Currin blinked back tears. “I plan to,” she said with a brittle laugh. “Good night, gentlemen.”  

Magnuson rose politely, wishing her the same. Sir Elliot stared at his pieces and waved a distrait hand. 

Lady Currin opened her mouth as if to speak, then shut it firmly. She spun around, sausage curls bouncing, and sailed from the room. The door closed behind her with a bang. 

At the noise, Sir Elliot’s hand convulsed, and the queen he held clattered to the board. Without righting it, he sprang to his feet and crossed the room. A whiskey was poured and swallowed in seconds.  

Magnuson refused the offer of a drink. He leaned back in his chair as another few fingers flowed from the decanter. “A high-spirited girl, indeed. You are fortunate in your wife.” 

Sir Elliot laughed harshly, the glass at this lips. “I am a fool.” He tossed back the liquor and slammed the glass onto the sideboard. “I find I have a headache, Magnuson,” he said, as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “We will finish our game tomorrow, if you do not mind.” 

“Of course. I think I will indulge in another of your most excellent cigars, then retire myself.”  

His host was almost through the door when Magnuson said, “I hope this weather doesn’t ruin the shooting tomorrow.” 

“Shooting?” Sir Elliot said sharply. His hand moved to his coat pocket. 

“Your birds. I have been looking forward to it.” 

“Yes, we will have a shoot.” Sir Elliot’s eyes grew cold and resolute. “One way or another.” With a curt nod, he departed. 

Humming to himself, Magnuson prepared his cigar and walked out onto the terrace. The breeze had increased in strength as the storm advanced. The leaves rustled and the surface of the lake shivered as it passed. Thunder rumbled more frequently.  

A movement near the opposing wing of the Hall caught his eye. He stepped into the shadows beside the French doors to watch. A ghostly figure, pale and silent, crossed the lawn, heading for the small boathouse at the edge of the lake. As it neared the structure, a door creaked open, and a man stood silhouetted in flickering lamplight. He lifted an arm. The other figure closed the distance at a run and fell into his embrace. A single word rode the breeze to the terrace. “Leo.” The door closed behind them. 

Magnuson stepped out of the shadows. He returned the cigar to his mouth and regarded the boathouse with cool calculation. Lightning flashed, reflecting off the Hall’s many windows. He looked up to one in particular, the one in which a pale-haired man stood watching the boathouse. Magnuson’s satisfied chuckle was lost in the rumble of thunder. 


	3. Chapter 3

The storm arrived. Rain lashed against the casements. Wind moaned through the eaves. Lightning tore the sky into pieces and drove away the darkness with each brilliant flash. Great cannonades of thunder bombarded the Hall, which shuddered in response. 

In the east wing, a column of flickering light shone through a break in the curtains and caught the slow opening of the door. Lady Currin crept into her bedroom, silver evening slippers dangling from one hand. The soft click of the latch as it eased into place was swallowed by a thunderclap, as was her futile snapping of the light switch. She leaned back against the heavy oak panels and sighed. 

In the deep shadows near the fireplace, a match flared to life. She gasped. The flame touched a candle, casting its glow on a wing chair and the man seated in it. 

Lady Currin pressed a hand to her chest. “Elliot, you startled me.” 

Her husband shook out the match and flicked it into the cold grate. He raked the hand through his disordered hair. His black silk tie was missing, and his dress shirt lay open at the throat. “Where have you been?” 

“For a walk.” She tossed her shoes toward the wardrobe. 

“In a storm?” 

A thunderbolt struck the grounds with a sound like a detonation. The flash captured her in its spotlight, and she raised her arm against it. The room trembled. 

She lowered her arm as the rumble faded. “That makes it more exciting. Besides, it hadn’t started yet.” 

Her dressing table stood in the corner beside the fireplace. With a show of nonchalance, she crossed to it, pulled off her earrings, and dropped them into a tray. Sir Elliot moved to her side. He lifted a tendril of hair from her shoulder. “Your curls have fallen.” 

She toyed with the tassel of an atomizer, then stopped abruptly. The air between them held a trace of cologne that was not his. “Why are you here, Elliot?” 

He caressed the wave of hair between his fingers. “Cannot a husband visit his wife’s bedroom?” 

There was no humor in her laughter. “A husband usually does…regularly.” 

He frowned. “Government is a demanding—” 

“Mistress?” she finished, tossing her head. The hair slipped from his hand. 

“Profession.” 

“So you’ve told me. Regularly.” 

“I am here now. You gave the impression earlier that I would be welcome.” 

She met his eyes in the mirror. “I’m your wife, Elliot. You are always welcome.” 

She dropped onto the cushioned stool and began to remove her rings. Sir Elliot remained behind her, watching. “I like your dress,” he said eventually. 

“Really? That’s surprising. A display of this much leg has always met with your disapproval.” 

“And you purchased it nevertheless.” 

She shrugged. “You rarely notice what I wear.” 

“I noticed tonight. Your back is lovely. I have always thought so.” 

He ran his fingertips along her spine. She inhaled, leaning into his touch. When he reached the loosely-tied cords beneath her shoulder blades, he paused. “Your bow is clumsily done.” 

Her gaze slid to her lap. “It’s difficult to reach by myself.” 

Another bang of thunder rocked the Hall. Lady Currin jumped, and her husband placed his hands on her shoulders. She covered one with her own, blushed, and let it fall. 

“So very tense,” he said, sliding his hands across the soft white fabric. 

“The price of fashion. Relax too much, and the dress will slip.” She dropped one shoulder and the neckline shifted, sliding a little down her arm. She peered up at his reflection through her lashes. 

His blue eyes kindled. “Shall I massage them?” 

She bit her lip. “It’s been a long time.” 

“Too long.” 

She eased the neckline forward and bared the other shoulder. His strong fingers kneaded her muscles. 

A groan of pleasure escaped her. “Oh, Elliot. You do that so well.” 

His thumbs stroked the back of her neck. “Like a swan’s,” he murmured. 

“You wrote a poem about it on our honeymoon. Do you remember?” 

“I do.” He closed his eyes for a moment, then recited, “‘Her pulse flutters beneath my fevered lips. I kiss, and she is undone.’” 

Her fingers slid up her neck to a spot beneath her hair. “It’s true. I was undone.” 

“Would it still be true tonight?” 

Lady Currin closed her eyes and tilted her head in invitation. Sir Elliot leaned forward, drawing her hair aside. 

“It sure was true with me.” 

At the sound of Napier’s voice, Lady Currin cried out. Sir Elliot whipped around to see his secretary standing in the doorway. A cold fury settled on his face. His eyes swept back to his wife, who clutched her neck with panicked fingers. 

“Please, Elliot. I can explain.” 

“Move your hand,” he commanded through clenched teeth. 

Lady Currin blanched and slowly drew her hand away. A purple bruise, the width of a mouth, marked her neck. 

Sir Elliot staggered back with a snarl. Lady Currin reached out to him. “It’s not what you think.” 

“Actually, Christina, it’s exactly what he thinks.” 

“Stop it, Leo. We only kissed.” She looked at her husband imploringly. “I swear, Elliot, that’s all that happened.” 

“Was this before or after you planned tomorrow’s sordid tryst?” 

Tears filled her eyes, and she buried her face in her hands. Napier moved quickly to her side and wrapped an arm around her. 

“There’s nothing sordid about it. Christina and I are in love.” 

Sir Elliot ignored him. “I can see it all. The Arlington Hotel. Satin sheets. Pink champagne. Tell me, did you plan to ask for our favorite suite or would you have the decency to request different accommodations?” 

Lady Currin flinched as if struck. Napier growled, “Don’t speak to her that way.” His easy, deferential manner was gone. Above his frown, his brown eyes were as hard as agate. 

“I will speak as I please. Pack your things, Napier, and get out.” 

“Gladly. But Christina goes with me.” 

Lady Currin jumped to her feet, backing away until she stood between the two men. Her wild-eyed gaze swung between them. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.” 

“I’m sorry, Christina,” Napier said sincerely. “It’s better that he knows now.” 

“Knows what? That you took my pay and my confidence, all the while you were seducing my wife.” Sir Elliot’s rage was barely contained, his voice rising with each word. “Pawing at her under my very nose. Making love to her in my boathouse.” 

A thunderbolt punctuated his tirade. Lady Currin shrieked and clapped her hands to her ears. 

“You don’t love your wife. You barely notice her. I’ve loved her from the moment I came here, only I couldn’t admit it until this weekend. Now I know she feels the same way.” 

Sir Elliot turned his fierce gaze on his wife. “Is this true?” 

“I—, I don’t know,” she stammered. “I don’t know what to say.” 

“Do you really wish to be with this conniver? This back-stabbing thief? This dishonorable wretch?” 

“He’s not those things,” she protested weakly. 

“Are you certain? Are you willing to risk everything on it?” 

“Don’t listen to him, Christina,” Napier said. “I’m risking everything on you, because I love you. More than money, more than my career. Can he say the same? I love you more than my life.” 

Napier reached out, and Lady Currin took a step toward him. As he looked beyond her, the elation left his face. Lady Currin spun around and gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. “No, Elliot, no.” 

Sir Elliot held up his antique pistol and aimed it at Napier’s heart. “Are you sure you love her more than your life?” 

“Don’t do it, Elliot, please. They’ll hang you.” 

“Leave this house at once, Napier” he commanded. 

“Not without Christina.” 

Lady Currin’s gaze flickered between the pistol and chilling ferocity on her husband’s face. “You’d better go, Leo. I’m afraid.” 

“Just take my hand, sweetheart. He wouldn’t dare shoot. Take my hand, and we’ll go far away from here.” 

With her eyes on her husband, she slowly stretched her arm toward the secretary. Napier stepped forward to grasp it. 

Sir Elliot’s finger tightened on the trigger. “I will kill you before I let you touch her again.” 

Lightning flashed. The oak tree nearest the house exploded in flames as the firebolt raced through its heart. Lady Currin screamed. The pistol fired. 

“Christina!” Napier cried. She fell back into his arms. A crimson stain blossomed across her chest. 

“Leo,” she whispered hoarsely. Her head rolled back. Her breathing stilled. 

“What have I done?” Sir Elliot mumbled numbly, as the pistol fell from his hand. “What have I done?” 

“Exactly what I anticipated, Sir Elliot.” A servant’s entrance, concealed in the wall and long-forgotten, swung open. Xavier Magnuson stepped into the room. “Thrush appreciates your cooperation.”


	4. Chapter 4

Magnuson wiped a cobweb from his jacket and surveyed the room with a proprietary air.

Napier knelt beside Lady Currin’s lifeless body, chafing her hand, his face a mask of pain and disbelief. “Call the police. He’s killed her.”

Sir Elliot stumbled back with lifted hands, as if to ward off the accusation. “It was an accident, Magnuson. I did not mean to shoot her.”

“I know. You intended to shoot Mr. Napier.” Magnuson steepled his fingers and tapped them against his chin. “I would have preferred that, I admit. Thrush would have made good use of your charming wife, after putting those high spirits of hers firmly under our control, of course. But one can't have everything.”

“Are you mad? What are you saying?” Napier demanded.

“That I arranged this little tableau.” He bent forward and nodded in a mockery of a bow.

“You shot my wife?”

“Heavens, no. I have never bloodied these hands. I simply orchestrated your actions to this conclusion.”

The two men gaped at him. Magnuson sighed. “I see that you don't yet fully appreciate my efforts. It is always the way. Each time I hope that one perceptive soul will show a regard for my genius. But alas.”

“Each time? There have been others?”

“Many. I have a talent, you see, for recognizing the potential in a situation and manipulating it to a particular end. This scenario, the love triangle, is my speciality. The seducer, the betrayer, and the betrayed.” The sweep of his arm encompassed each one. “The faces vary, to be sure, as does the victim, but the results are the same. Thrush takes one more life under its control and draws one step closer to world domination.”

Napier rose, shaking his head as if trying to wake from a dream. “Enough of this. If you claim to be an accessory, fine. It's your neck in the noose. The police can take you both in.”

He pulled open the door. Magnuson’s servant stood in the hall, a Thrush rifle in hand. Napier lunged forward with a shout. The rifle barrel rammed into his stomach. He grunted and doubled-over.

Magnuson made a noise of disapproval. “I shouldn’t try that again, if I were you. Unlike myself, Mr. Yates has no compunctions about getting his hands bloody.”

At the wave of the rifle, Napier staggered back into the room. Yates kicked the door closed behind them.

“The servants?” Magnuson asked. Yates nodded.

Sir Elliot paled. “What have you done to them?”

“Merely a narco-toxin. It ensures they remain oblivious to any curious incidents in the night-time.”

“And us?” Napier asked hoarsely, cradling his stomach.

Magnuson sat on the bench at the end of Lady Currin’s bed. “Sir Elliot is a respected member of government. Thrush is loath to see his distinguished career end on the gallows.”

He swung the foot of his crossed leg from side to side. Sir Elliot swallowed convulsively and brought a shaking hand to his throat.

“We are prepared to save your life, in exchange for certain considerations. We will let it be known that Napier and your wife have run off together to the Orient. Witnesses will confirm their presence on the train and in hotels. Then the trail will run cold. The press will have a field day, of course, but we’ll help you weather the scandal.”

“You can do all that?”

“Easily.”

“And…him?” Sir Elliot jerked his chin toward Napier.

“Well, we can’t have him running loose contradicting our story. We will extract any sensitive information he’s learned as your secretary. Beyond that, his résumé seems limited to clerical work and seduction. Not much there to bargain with, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, I think his résumé is a bit more impressive than that,” a voice said dryly. “Except for the clerical work part. Always room for improvement there.”

Alexander Waverly stood in the servant’s entrance, slapping grime from the sleeve of his tweed coat. “It’s quite dusty in that passage. All I could do not to sneeze.”

Magnuson leapt to his feet. “Yates,” he hissed with a sharp gesture to his henchman.

“It’s Slate, actually,” the henchman said in deceptively pleasant tones. “Hands up, please.”

Magnuson reached for his pocket. “Don’t be a fool,” Waverly advised. “There are real bullets in that rifle, and Mr. Slate never misses.”

“Who would at that distance?” Napoleon Solo said from the corner of his mouth. He abandoned his cowering posture and smoothed his hair into place.

“How’s your stomach?” Mark asked.

Napoleon buttoned his jacket. “Perfect.”

“Really?” Mark’s green eyes twinkled. “Felt a little soft to me.”

“If you’re quite finished, gentlemen,” Waverly harrumphed. He drew a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. “Mr. Kuryakin, you do the honors. Mr. Solo, the lights. And Miss Pemberley, please get up. If you stain this valuable Aubusson, the real Sir Elliot will never forgive me.”

Napoleon flipped the switch, and the lights responded immediately. Illya extended a hand to the corpse, who accepted his help, then manhandled Magnuson into the cuffs. A search of the prisoner’s pockets produced a small smoke bomb.

Faustina cupped her hands against the window and peered into the night. “Boy, you did a number on that tree. Good thing they’re planning on removing it.”

“The detonation was adequate,” Illya said as he pushed Magnuson down onto the bench. “I will examine it in the morning and make notes.”

“This was all a set-up?” Magnuson asked incredulously.

“We can’t take credit for the storm, of course, although we did augment it somewhat.” Waverly’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “You’re not the only one who can manipulate circumstances. Mr. Solo here has a similar talent—”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Even if he does tend toward the overly dramatic. I think we can move things along more quickly in the future, don’t you?”

Napoleon grimaced. “Well, we had to put on a convincing show. And it was the, ah, impresario’s closing night, after all.”

“You’ve got nothing on me,” Magnuson said. “No one was killed, so there’s no crime.”

“Charles Michaelson, alias Xavier Magnuson, alias Maxwell Charles, and so on,” Waverly recited. “Thrush’s Angel of Death. That elusive figure on the periphery of scandal and tragedy, a different face for each name. You’ve been a hard man to capture.”

“You’ve no proof of anything.”

“We have your statements to begin with, all recorded. And after an application of truth serum, I’m sure you’ll be more forthcoming.”

“You think I haven’t been inoculated against such measures?” Magnuson scoffed.

“If so, there’s always the police. The threat of hanging is most persuasive.”

Magnuson’s laughter had a hollow ring. “An empty threat. No murder was done, remember?”

Waverly’s brows rose, and his eyes grew chill. “Plenty of murders have been done. We have the bodies to show for it. Thrush has always been generous in that regard.” He took out a handkerchief and retrieved the antique pistol. “And the usual tests will reveal your fingerprints on this weapon, not the erstwhile Sir Elliot’s.”

Illya held up his hand and carefully peeled a film from one fingertip.

Magnuson laughed. “Thrush surgically removes the prints from all its members.”

“We will sear on a new set with a laser. They tell me the procedure is extremely painful.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Take him away, Mr. Slate.”

“Gladly, sir.” Mark hauled Magnuson up by the elbow and propelled him from the room.

Waverly turned to his CEA. “Congratulations, Mr. Solo. I had my doubts about this plan of yours, but it did the trick in the end.”

“Yes, sir.” He looked at Illya pointedly. “Despite a few deviations from the script.”

“I noticed that. They kept to the spirit of the thing, however.” His lips curved in a triumphant smile. “We finally got our man.”

“Shall I call in the clean-up crew now?” Illya asked.

“Of course. Sir Elliot is anxious to have his house back. Do be sure that all of our equipment is removed this time. No stray microphones or cameras left behind, please.”

“I will oversee the process personally.”

“Very good. I’ll brief the baronet in the morning.” He skewered Napoleon with his gaze. “Mr. Solo, Lady Currin has specifically requested your presence.”

“Well, ah, that’s understandable, sir. She contributed several ideas to our production. Naturally she wants to know if they proved helpful.”

“Naturally. Let's just be sure that life doesn't imitate art.” With that final caveat, Waverly departed.


	5. Chapter 5

“I think we can consider that to be a rave review,” Faustina said when their Chief had gone.

Napoleon rounded on his partner. “‘Conniver. Back-stabbing thief. Dishonorable wretch.’ A little off-script there, weren't you?”

Illya shrugged. “It lacked verisimilitude as written.”

“Really? ‘Cad’ wasn’t believable enough?”

“Not to my mind. Sir Elliot’s emotions needed to vent on more than a single word.”

“In the future, keep those ‘fevered lips’ stuck to the script, both of you. The bedroom scene was nothing like we rehearsed. I had a hell of a time figuring out my cue.”

“Yet you managed to arrive with your usual impeccable timing.”

Napoleon gave a small salute and headed for the door. “I have a briefing in the morning, so I’m going to catch some sleep. Enjoy the clean up. Maybe take an aspirin for those lips.” 

When he was gone, Faustina's chuckling turned to outright laughter. She winced and pressed a hand to the bloodstain on her dress. “Ow. This thing has a kick like a mule.”

“Put that in your report, and the Lab will make refinements.” He looked her over. “They will want to examine the dress as well.”

She stepped away from the window and said with feigned shock, “Mr. Kuryakin, are you trying to get me out of my clothes?”

He nodded gravely, a smile in his eyes. “Purely in the line of duty.”

“I’ve heard that one before.” She grabbed a robe from the foot of the bed and disappeared into the bathroom.

Illya leaned against the wall to wait. Presently, the door swung in slightly and a hand appeared, dangling the ruined dress. He took it from her.

“I’m not looking forward to this next part,” she said. “Napoleon was very thorough with the tape.”

Illya’s fist tightened on the dress. “Best to do it quickly, then.”

“One, two, three.” There was a ripping sound and a short yelp. “Here. I’m sure to be black and blue.” 

He grabbed the device she thrust out next to his ear and began to peel the tape from it. “Another bruise for your collection. I thought the love-bite was to be done with cosmetics.”

“Apparently it lacked verisimilitude. Napoleon recommended the real thing.”

“Of course, he did,” he muttered, then called out to be heard over the running taps, “He will dine out on that verse for weeks, you know, thanks to your improvisations.”

“But the poem was so much better than the stuff we rehearsed. How did it go again? ‘I kiss her with fevered lips—’”

“‘Her pulse flutters beneath my fevered lips,’” he recited flatly. His fingers crushed the wad of tape into a tight ball. “‘I kiss, and she is undone.’”

She stepped from the bathroom, still tying the belt of her robe. “It loses a little something when you say it that way. Who wrote it?”

“I did.”

“You didn’t!” She fell back against the door jam in a show of surprise. “What's the rest?”

“That is all there is. It was an improvisation.”

Illya gave her a quick, sidelong glance and returned to examining the spent device in his hand. Faustina regarded his profile intently, her lip caught between her teeth. She rocked toward him and reached for the tie of her robe. Then she checked, her mouth twisting into a wry smile. “I should get dressed.”

Illya watched her cross the room, then headed for the corridor. “I have a clean-up to supervise.” She wiggled her fingers at him and continued pulling items from a dresser drawer. He gave her a last, lingering look and withdrew, closing the door behind him.

At the click of the latch, Faustina straightened. She moved to the bed and threw herself back across the coverlet. “Illya Kuryakin,” she whispered, “you will be my undoing.”


End file.
